Roping a Deer

***This is not my story. This may not even be a true story. However, I after reading it, I thought it needed to be posted. Thank you to whoever this happened. You made my day.***

I had this idea that I could rope a deer, put it in a stall, feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat it. The first step in this adventure was getting a deer. I figured that, since they congregate at my cattle feeder and do not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away), it should not be difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head (to calm it down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my rope. The cattle, having seen the roping thing before, stayed well back. They were not having any of it. After about 20 minutes, my deer showed up-- 3 of them. I picked out a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the feeder, and threw my rope. The deer just stood there and stared at me. I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end so I
would have a good hold.

The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation. I took a step towards it, it took a step away. I put a little tension on the rope .., and then received an education. The first thing that I learned is that, while a deer may just stand there looking at you funny while you rope it, they are spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope.

That deer EXPLODED. The second thing I learned is that pound for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt. A cow or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope and with some dignity. A deer-- no chance.

That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled. There was no controlling it and certainly no getting close to it. As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not nearly as good an idea as I had originally imagined. The only upside is that they do not have as much stamina as many other animals.

A brief 10 minutes later, it was tired and not nearly as quick to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up. It took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head. At that point, I had lost my taste for corn-fed venison. I just wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope.

I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere. At the time, there was no love at all between me and that deer. At that moment, I hated the thing, and I would venture a guess that the feeling was mutual. Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground, I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility for the situation we were in. I didn't want the deer to have to suffer a slow death, so I managed to get it lined back up in between my truck and the feeder - a little trap I had set before hand...kind of like a squeeze chute. I got it to back in there and I started moving up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite?

They do! I never in a million years would have thought that a deer would bite somebody, so I was very surprised when ... I reached up there to grab that rope and the deer grabbed hold of my wrist. Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse where they just bite you and then let go. A deer bites you and shakes its head--almost like a pit bull.. They bite HARD and it hurts.

The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to freeze and draw back slowly. I tried screaming and shaking instead. My method was ineffective.

It seems like the deer was biting and shaking for several minutes, but it was likely only several seconds. I, being smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by now), tricked it. While I kept it busy tearing the tendons out of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that rope loose.

That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the day.

Deer will strike at you with their front feet. They rear right up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp. I learned a long time ago that, when an animal --like a horse --strikes at you with their hooves and you can't get away easily, the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an aggressive move towards the animal. This will usually cause them to back down a bit so you can escape.

This was not a horse.. This was a deer, so obviously, such trickery would not work. In the course of a millisecond, I devised a different strategy. I screamed like a woman and tried to turn and run. The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run from a horse that paws at you is that there is a good chance that it will hit you in the back of the head. Deer may not be so different from horses after all, besides being twice as strong and 3 times as evil, because the second I turned to run, it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now, when a deer paws at you and knocks you down, it does not immediately leave. I suspect it does not recognize that the danger has passed. What they do instead is paw your back and jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a little girl and covering your head.

I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went away. So now I know why when people go deer hunting they bring a rifle with a scope - to sort of even the odds..

What's in a PIN?

I don't know my PIN number.

This has had very little effect on my life because I hate carrying cash. The germ load on money skeeves me out a bit. I haven't used my debit card in months. DH needed me to bring him some cash a few days ago. Not a problem.

Except I don't know my PIN number.

I knew how to solve this. I would have my bank change my PIN over the phone. 'Why not just pop into a nearby branch and do it in person?' you might be wondering.

Because I am stubborn. I memorized my account number eight years ago (which by the way, is way longer than a PIN). I refuse to learn a new account number. Thus, I refuse to change banks. This is despite the fact the closest branch of my bank is two states away.

So I pull out my phone, google the bank, and am quickly connected with Tim. He suggests I come into a branch. I tell him I don't have time for a 400 mile road trip.

"Okay," says Tim," we just have to ask some security questions, then I can ask my manager for approval, then I can call you back in a couple hours."

This is not helpful for my 'need cash now' problem, but I reason I should probably know my PIN in general, so I agree.

"Mother's maiden name. Grandfather's name. Last four of your social. Birthday. Account number. Favorite cartoon character. Number of siblings. "

Easiest quiz I've ever taken.

"Great, just two more. At what branch did you open this account?"

"When I was 16? That's over ten years ago. It was one of three." I named all three.

"So we can't accept that as a correct answer." He paused. "Moving on, what was the last thing you used your debit card for?"

"Oh, I paid my X credit card bill from that account yesterday."

"That wasn't a debit transaction. You did do that, but it doesn't count. What was the last debit transaction?"

"Do you mean something I had to use my PIN for?"

"Yes."

"You do realize we're doing this because I don't know my PIN. The one you guys reset last spring when my card was stolen in Spain and you sent me this new card. Which I have never used as a debit card...... because I don't know the PIN. "

"Yes. "

He didn't reset the PIN for me. Seems I failed the security check. Yet people used my old card with no trouble in Spain. Thieves apparently know more about me than me.

Maybe they can tell me my PIN.

Onions

Goodness- the tenth of December and nary a blog from our daring heroine. What on earth could have happpened?

Could it be a marvelous combination of overbooking and idiocy? That is a distinct possibility.

I'm on a plane to Florida right now. This is super exciting for a few reasons. One - winter has set in up North with the kind of fevered zeal that got the Crusades kicked off. Two - I'm not in first class, but I am in an exit row and someone has stolen the seat in front of me. Hello leg room! Three - I'm interviewing tomorrow.

One tiny little flaw in my day. The man sitting next to me apparently bathes in onion juice. It is possible that he also uses onion toothpaste.

He wants to chat.

So I've resorted to answering questions in monosyllables and holding my breath. I'm also wearing headphones even though I'm not listening to my iPod in hopes that he will give up and turn his pungent attention to the guy on his right.

Back-up plan: ask overly personal questions.

We'd never make the Saturday Evening Post cover

I was at home awhile back and went fishing with my grandfather. For those of you who don't know him, you really should. This guy is awesome.

We were walking the creek bank and hoping for a bite. The creek holds mainly rock bass, perch, and a few small mouth. There is also the occasional snapping turtle or water moccasin, but we don't really fish for those. We bring a pistol for them. They are particularly vulnerable to lead poisoning. It would be a great Norman Rockwell kind of moment if I could say that we were talking and sharing stories, but my grandpa isn't much of a talker. Luckily for him, I am.

I was chattering on about school, surgery, fishing, how to make soap, my dog - pretty much anything that crossed my mind. My grandpa once told me that if any thought got stuck in my head it would die of loneliness since all the other thoughts had escaped through my mouth. Apparently, I have a problem just "being" sometimes when I'm with someone I love.

The fish were ignoring my best attempts to catch them, so I started skipping rocks. I took my time to find the perfect round, flat, smooth creek stones. I eyed the water movement, tested the wind, and flicked my wrist.

Thunk.

I stink at skipping rocks.

I hit the only stinking boulder in the middle of the creek. The rock never even hit the water.

My grandpa looked at me and chuckled.

(It is imperative you add a thick Southern accent in your mind to the next part.)

"Did I ever tell you 'bout the time we were down here fishin'? It was after a big rainstorm, banks were half washed away. Fishin' was no good, just silt and mud, but it was nice to be out. Cotton was just aways down there, and did he let out a hollar. He found an arm or leg or something stickin' outta the bank. Found a whole guy down there, skeleton ya know, just in the creek bank. We figured it was an Indian buried there. We've got mounds all over here, and the rain just washed him out. "

I was thrilled. "Did you call the police? Or the archeology people? Or the newspaper? Did they take pictures. Where is he now? Were there more? Maybe he was murdered. Was he murdered? Were there artifacts?"

My grandpa looked me over consideringly, and said, "Well now, didn't see a need. I reckon he washed down the river. You best get back to fishin'. It's gettin' on dark soon."

That is a key difference between the two of us. He found a skeleton and left it. It had been there before him and would be when he was gone. If I found a skeleton, and I would call everyone I knew, make sure someone took a picture of me next to it giving a thumbs up, and then try to get it put in a museum.

His way might be better.

I wish you hadn't asked me that.

I hate answering questions for people.

Because then other people feel the need to answer the questions too.

And I think the other people are wrong.

And then another murder gets tacked onto my rap sheet.

Which invites more questions.

It's a vicious cycle.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em

Today I went to the national tobacco document depository.

Up until a week ago, I didn't know we had a national tobacco document depository.

It's in a warehouse in a semi-bad neighborhood. There are no signs outside. The windows are darkened. Almost all of the interior doors have signs reading "keep out, authorized personnel only" just in case you were getting any ideas after finally finding the building and getting past the security. I think it's their way of welcoming you.

I had a special tour of the warehouse. They have over 800 million paper documents stored in the back. In paper boxes. Thank goodness for that no smoking in the workplace law - that back room looks like really good tinder.

The settlement made all of the records in the depository public. All of the records except those locked in the top secret room of which I was not allowed to learn the location. The tobacco company is paying for this, so they kindly gave the public computer systems to search the documents.

Except the documents aren't digital.

Thus, the computer system is used to look up the box the document is in, and then a worker has to go get the box for you. After you look through the box, they have to look at all the documents in that box to make sure you didn't sneak anything out (or in). Then the box is replaced in that serial killer haven warehouse.

Not a terrible system. At least you can search the documents by date, and when the search item is clicked on a preview of the document is typed up for you.

Except you can't. And it doesn't.

You can search for advertisements - and you get a list of all advertisements, advertising plans, internal advertising campaigns, etc for the tobacco company chosen. However, you don't know what is what. You just get a list of numbers that correlate to papers that are related to advertising. I think it's their way of saying "ha ha, suckers".

I did find by accident one handwritten note that said, "My kids want to be cigarette cartons for Halloween this year." Took me four boxes to find that one memo.

I have never appreciated Google more.

Not my toy story

I can't claim this story. I wish I could, but I am not male, nor do I have children, so I'm pretty sure people would call me out on it.

My friend is beautiful. Curly brunette hair, enormous blue eyes, thick dark eyelashes, and perfect teeth. He is one of the prettiest men I have ever met in person. (His prettiness is slightly exceeded by his brother-in-law's. I'm pretty sure minor Greek deities would stop to stare at that guy.) He is also married to one of the most adorable women I have ever met. Blonde, petite, gymnast. Nothing more needs to be said. They, as would be expected, have two ridiculously cute children - one blonde, one brunette. The whole family is absurdly gorgeous.

Last week, my beautiful friend took his beautiful child number one to see Toy Story at the movie theatre. To get into the spirit of things, they were both dressed as Buzz Lightyear. Beautiful child was super excited as only a three-almost-four year old can be.

They arrived at the theatre. The guy selling tickets looked them up and down.

"Two for Inglourious Basterds?"

One of those days.

I would have been very happy staying in bed this morning.

It was cold outside. It was raining. And it was very grey. I pulled myself out from under the pierzyna and padded down the hall. 54 degrees. Still no heat.

Hot shower, hot breakfast, hugged my puppy, headed to class.

Fell down the stairs. Moccasins and wet wood reduced the coefficient of friction to something close to zero. Skinned knees and grass stained tush are not a novel occurrence in my life, so I picked myself up and headed to the Jeep.

The Jeep had low air in its tires. The car was undriveable secondary to its run-in with the tree and subsequent hot-dog bun appearance. DH took the only umbrella because he secretly thinks it's funny when my hair gets really fuzzy in the rain. Plus blue is his favorite color, so he likes it when my fingers lose all circulation from the cold.

I walked in the rain.

There was a crazy woman walking on the sidewalk in front of me. I probably shouldn't call her crazy. She was wearing a walking boot, a purple trash bag wrapped around her waist, and a red nylon bag over her head. She was pushing an empty stroller. So instead of crazy we'll go with Susan. DH said she was probably homeless. I don't think she was homeless. It was a really nice trash bag.

I didn't want to pass her in case she got ideas about running me down with the stroller, so I trailed behind. It was a poor decision on my part.

You see, Mr. Bus Driver had the same idea I did. He was trailing behind Susan for about three blocks ~ just enough time for the rain to soak through my shoes and give my hair a nice halo effect. Then Mr. Bus Driver decided to blow past Susan and I on his merry way to the bus stop a block ahead of us.

There was a large muddy puddle along that route.

Susan laughed so hard at drenched, muddy, shivering me that she had to sit down in her stroller.

I laughed too. All I could think was "if only I had wrapped up in a trash bag."

Hot Dog anyone?

My mom has a story about her first brand new car. It was a Cougar. Sexy and shiny and all hers. She parked it under the only tree in the hospital parking lot so it would be shaded. Sometime during her shift, the tree fell on it. Hot dog bun car.

I parked my baby car under the lone tree by the sidewalk outside my house. It was still pretty warm, and I don't like the dash to get too hot. Sometime during my Southern food cooking spree a cold front moved in complete with straight line winds, and that idiotic tree fell on my car. Hot dog bun car.

Like mother, like daughter I suppose. Why couldn't I have inherited her height instead?

I'll only be a second.

Ladies and gentleman, I have seen a breakthrough.

It is perfect for those times when you see the forbidden prime parking real estate directly outside the door of a business and then note the next closest parking is a whole twenty spaces away. Who has time to walk twenty parking spaces? We are busy. We are important. We are only going to be inside for a second.

Introducing the 30 second parking sign.

This a real sign in a small town in the northern U.S.. It is strictly enforced by the 30 second parking meters along this stretch of sidewalk. How much does 30 seconds cost you? A nickel.

How much is the ticket for going over your alloted 30 seconds? Thirty-five dollars.

So enjoy your prime parking place. Revel in your superiority over the guys who have to walk twenty feet. Just don't revel too long. You've only got a second.

New phone

My new phone (whose parent company is not named Pear or Grape) is fantastic. I have the new phone because I managed to destroy four other phones since January, and I convinced DH that I would take extra good care of this one.

Sucker.

Truthfully, I am being extra careful with it. I even bought a super-heavy-duty-only-cockroaches-and-this-case-will-survive-a-nuclear-attack protective case for it. There are three layers of plastic. Two screen covers. A rubber cover encases the plastic covers. It's sand proof, dog proof, and oven and freezer resistant. Oh yeah.

Here's hoping it lasts more than a month.

Paul Bunyan

I met real live lumberjacks awhile back. Muscle flexing, ax wielding, flannel wearing lumberjacks.

Okay, so they were wearing safety pants, sleeveless shirts, and protective eyewear, but the muscles and axes were there. It was the Lumberjack Days championships. (Yes, it's a real event... a side effect of living this far north.) Wood chips were flying, saws were buzzing, poles were scaled, and axes were hurtling through the air. Lumberjacks are hot.

It was also the Dock Dogs championship. Crazy dogs take flying leaps off the dock, grab a bar seven feet in the air, and land with a huge splash in the pool below. My pup is a little crazy and loves water. I decided that she should watch the dogs compete. After all, kids learn by watching. Why can't dogs?

So there I am, holding my dog up to watch other dogs jump into the water. Stupid? Absolutely. Did I care? Absolutely not - until the nice cameraman decided to get an up-close-and-personal shot of the crazy lady holding up her dog. I tried charm, pleading, and threatening, but he would not be budged. It was going to be on TV.

At least it's not a popular channel.

And it continues...

What shall we choose for my misadventure two of J.'s wedding day? I think we'll go with my beloved spouse.

The bridal party's day started bright and early at eight a.m. - at least for the females. I secretly think males wake up on the day of their wedding, shower, shave, watch football/basketball/golf, take a nap, watch more sports, then wander down to the ceremony site thirty minutes before the wedding begins. The little devils still manage to look devastatingly handsome, which is completely unfair.

Since I was in the wedding and DH was coming as "designated reception mingler", he was under strict instructions to arrive no later than 4:00 p.m for the 4:30 ceremony. Unfortunately for him, there was some sort of catastrophe that closed the road to the gardens. He called me in a panic.

"Tell J. I'm sorry, but this cop is being a total *bad word* and won't let me through." He moved the phone away from his mouth.

"What if I just drive through? What are you gonna do?" He moved the phone back.

"Apparently, he's going to arrest me if I drive through. "

We gave him (and the many other guests who were being held up) alternate directions and had the coordinator postpone the wedding. Forty-five minutes passed. There was a wedding scheduled after Mrs. Darcy's, so we couldn't wait any longer. Out traipsed the wedding party down the hill, the girls clutching the arms of the men to keep from toppling over in their heels.

From behind us we heard "thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump." As one, we turned.

There was DH and the usher sprinting toward us from the parking lot.

DH slapped my tush as he ran by. "Look great babe. See you in a few J. - you look great too!"

At least the man knows how to make an entrance.

Don't pull my hair

My best friend got married this past weekend. She was beautiful, as was to be expected, and the wedding was wonderful. It did not, however, go off without some hiccups in my world. (Luckily, my world was way down on the list of important things that day. J.'s world was top priority, as it should have been.)

Hiccup one was my hair. The stylist, a darling gay man who practices his updo skills on drag queens, took one look at my hair when I walked in and started shaking his head.

"Curls." He grabbed a handful of hair. "Thick curls."

Then, ladies and gentleman, he took a blow-dryer AND a brush to my hair. I haven't brushed my hair whilst it was curly since I was in my early teens. He now looked aghast at the halo of frizz that he had created. Diana Ross had nothing on me.

He threw me in hot rollers for awhile, then started twisting and tugging. I no longer had curls. I had knots - twisted ropes of hair tied into knots. It was cool, I'll give him that. It also took me forty-five minutes to get undone when I came home that night. DH helped me pull out all the bobby-pins (68), and my hair didn't move. The knots had to be untied, unrolled, and washed out with conditioner. Just a word of advice for you stylists reading: if the hair is curly, just leave it curly. There is no need to attempt to make it follow the straight hair rules. It doesn't want to follow those rules. It is a hair government anarchist.

Either way, hair went up, make-up went on, and dress was wiggled into. We'll call that adventure one of the day.

We walk around the leaf.

Stupid ducks

There are days when I feel that I am on top of everything. My cute yellow ducks are lined up in a nice neat circle, paddling like mad under the surface, all headed the appropriate direction. That was yesterday. Then there are days when my ducks have lost the ability to stay in line - some are flying away, some are paddling off, and a couple are drowning. That was more today.

I requested an official copy of my transcript for my application. For the privilege of looking at the grades I earned in classes I had to pay for, I was charged ten American dollars. The registrar office sent out the official grades on fancy blue paper. Unbeknownst to me, I needed it on plain white paper. Now I have to pay another ten American dollars so an undergraduate in a work study program can hit the print key in the registrar's office and give me a copy on white paper - the color of paper one normally would print upon.

A few minutes after I received this notice, I headed out for class. My professor told us yesterday that we had the option of taking the class on 'campus 2' via live video stream. I thought this was awesome news since campus 2 is much closer to my house. It's about a twenty minute walk to the building on campus 2, but it was a beautiful day. I walked. The classroom was suspiciously empty when I arrived, but I was a few minutes early. I emailed my professor to thank him for the option. He wrote back three minutes before class was supposed to start.

"Oh, I have bad news. I canceled that classroom this morning. Sorry. Can you make it to campus 1?"

No, I cannot bloody well make it to campus 1! I have a twenty minute walk to my house to get my car, a ten minute drive to campus, and at least ten minutes to find parking, pay for parking, and get to the classroom. The class is only an hour long! Are you serious, Mr. Professor? Could you not have sent out an email when you decided this?

I dislike you Mr. Professor.

I remembered the inter-campus bus and started running. Breathless, glistening (because girls should avoid sweating, or at least calling it sweating), and late, I flagged him down. I snuck into the classroom on campus 1 twenty minutes later. Slid into a seat, flipped open my laptop, and looked up at the prof and screens ... only to see three students on live video feed in the campus 2 classroom.

I really dislike you Mr. Professor.

Ouch.

I love my pup. I think she is absolutely wonderful. I also think she may be the death of me.

Since pup and I have become best friends, I have twisted my ankle, gotten multiple rope burns, and busted my lip on her head twice. She has tripped me, drug me down the stairs, and caused me to spill numerous glasses of tea on my lap. She has helped me fall down hills, fall down stairs, and just fall.

Last week, she broke my arm. It's a tiny itty bitty little break - no cast required - but a break nonetheless. She knows the command 'whoa' pretty well. Her release command is 'all right'; I had already given her release. She was hanging at my ankles, leash dangling from my left hand, when that albino squirrel came tearing by us. She particularly hates that squirrel because it throws acorns at her when she is on the deck. She shot after the vermin.

My arm went after her. Unfortunately for me, the Jeep door was directly in the path my wrist had decided to take.

Four to six weeks - surely I can survive accident free for four to six weeks.

Revertigo

I love the show 'How I Met Your Mother'. As far as I know, they coined the term 'revertigo' and so I must give them credit. If it is patented by another organization, they may have credit instead. Either way, I did not invent it. I wish I had; it's an awesome word.

Revertigo: upon encountering a person from one's past, one begins to act in the manner he or she did when he or she used to spend time with that person. You all know what this is. You all suffer from it at least a teeny, eentsy, little bit. Think hard ~ do you always play the same role at family gatherings even though 'peacemaker' isn't your style anymore? Do you let your big brother boss you around and take his advice even though you outweigh him, are taller than him, and have six more college degrees than him? Are you still a little intimidated by the cheerleading captain and the quarterback? You're guilty, my friend.

As am I.

I experienced a bad case a while back. I like to believe I am a confident, pulled-together, intelligent person. I am a physician. I love fashion. I can juggle multiple tasks at once with ease.

Yet I found myself arguing and giving in to another person's choices for my clothes. My choices were more flattering, more current, and a heck of a lot cuter in my opinion. This person always dictated what I wore though. I snuck my clothes in my purse and changed at a gas station like a guilty teenager trying to sneak a short skirt past her parents.

My opinion was asked on a medical matter and promptly discredited by another person who has no medical training. "I know better than her. " I desperately wanted to pull out the fancy diploma to disagree, but found myself biting my tongue. What harm was it really doing?

I was teased about losing things (which I do), about my driving (which is acceptable), and about how I needed constant reminders to keep up with two tasks (which I don't). I took all the teasing in stride and bit my tongue. There is a sizable dent in my tongue. I did it because I care deeply about the people who were causing my revertigo. It doesn't make me terribly happy, but it's their way of showing they care for me too. That easily makes up for any temporary angst I might have.

One of those people called me later to let me know their doctor had the same advice I did about the medical problem. The person thought that was funny. I didn't mind this time. After all, they're the one who had poison ivy.

What time is it?

I was awakened by the pleasant 'whoosh-thump' of nail guns. They are re-roofing the house next door. I am all in favor of roofs that don't leak. I am less in favor of working on the roofs before the sun is fully up.

Pup was up and barking at the idiots on the roof outside our window, so I drug my disgruntled self out of bed. I stumbled to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and squinted at the two teenagers on the roof. Something wasn't quite right.

To the bathroom, contacts in, and back to the kitchen. I sipped my tea and studied their progress. They were moving right along. Unfortunately for them, they were moving in the wrong direction. They were putting the shingles on upside down. I thought long and hard about not telling them. It seemed fair since they had woken me so early, but with interview season coming I need to store up all the good karma I can.

I opened the window and caught the attention of the nearest teen boy. "You should start from the bottom. You guys are putting them on upside down."

He stared me down. "Right. I'm sure you've roofed before. We know what we're doing." His buddy giggled.

I shrugged. I had tried. Their boss came by about 8. They spent the next hour ripping off all the shingles they had put on that morning. Looks like karma doesn't like being woke up that early either.

"I've got a touch of hangover bureaucrat. Don't push me."

Pup has an internal alarm clock that gets us both up around 6:00 a.m. Unfortunately for me, it does not have a snooze button. Four hours of sleep, and we were up and back on the road.

I dislike the idea of bumper stickers. I can swallow one or two on a vehicle, especially if they are work or military related. I get those. I actually like it when a car has twenty or thirty on the back door. It’s a friendly notification that the two of us will probably never be friends. Then there are the cars with bumper stickers whose messages are belied by the driver’s behavior. I particularly hate those. I offer for reference the woman with the ‘hang up the phone and drive’ sticker who was talking on her phone and driving fifteen miles under the speed limit on a two-lane highway for about fourteen point seven miles. She was annoying me doubly – stupid driving habits and stupid bumper stickers. I muttered an ancient curse upon her back tires and passed at the first opportunity.

Usually I am in a hurry to arrive at my destination and blow by all the roadside attractions, but not this time. Pup and I stopped at every brown-signed tourist stop we passed. Jesse James’ birthplace – we saw it. George Washington Carver monument – we were there. Harry Truman’s birthplace – check. If there had been a sign for America’s largest ball of yarn, we would have stopped.

One of our first detours was John Wayne’s birthplace. It was a precious little white farmhouse draped in American flags. I loved it. The sidewalk was made of bricks donated by people from around the world, famous and not so famous. Someone had a van with murals of John Wayne covering all the sides.

While we were there, we met a group of bikers headed to Louisiana. I admired their bikes, and they admired pup. (She is rather pretty, but I’m rather biased.) We exchanged favorite John Wayne quotes. (Mine is from McLintock, in case you were wondering.) It was a lovely ten minutes.

My excellent sense of direction took us the wrong way out of town. We had turned down a gravel road (because all gravel roads eventually come to pavement or end thus bringing your lostness to a conclusion, though not always a satisfying one). We crested a hill and there it was, rural Midwest Americana at its finest. Cornfields on one side, beans on the other, a creek dividing the two, and a red-sided, one-lane, covered bridge awash in sunlight. We had stumbled on a covered bridge of Madison County. We took a break to stretch our legs and wandered down to the creek side. There was a man taking photographs of the bridge. He looked up as we came down the hill. He held up the camera.

“Do you mind?” I tilted my head quizzically. “May I shoot you two?”

I smiled and agreed. He snapped a few photos, and we chatted for a few minutes. Clint Eastwood, he was not. He was a very nice man shooting some of the bridges for a piece for a magazine though. We discussed pup (who was being a doofus and pointing dragonflies), and he gave me a tip on a good restaurant for lunch in a nearby town.

Iowa is better than I previously thought.

Hourly rate

I finished summer classes on Wednesday. While attempting eighteen master’s level hours in ten weeks was not my best idea, it doesn’t matter. Fait accompli. I grabbed my favorite boots, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, my swimsuit, and a sundress, loaded pup in the car, and headed south. Nothing restores a girl’s spirit like a road trip. It was well after dark by the time we made it out of the city. It also happened to be storming. I flipped the wipers on high and kept driving. At one point the rain was coming down so hard the road lines were obscured. I toyed with the idea of pulling over under an overpass and sleeping the storm out but pressed onward. We drove through two tornado-producing storms on our way to the hotel that night. Two. Perhaps the overpass idea had merit.

We finally made it to our pre-booked accommodations around 1:30 in the morning. Pup was being a brat, I was exhausted, and all I wanted was a bed and pillow for a few hours. As I was pulling into the parking lot, I noted the room doors were on the outside of the buildings. In my past experience, that has never been a good sign. The lobby door was locked, so I rang the bell – five times. A rumpled man emerged from a back room rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“How much did you pay for the room?” he asked.

“I have no idea. DH paid for it online. Forty?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“It will be fifty five dollars then, plus tax. If you have a pet, it’s twenty more plus a hundred dollar room cleaning fee if she destroys something. You are on the second floor.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “She’ll be sleeping in the car.”

I grabbed my bag and the key. A wave of musty air hit me as I opened the door. A queen bed with two flat pillows took the majority of the space. A wall mounted lamp cast a yellow glow over a lonely towel, washcloth, and bar of soap resting atop a spindly brown table. The TV was directly from the 1960’s. I did some quick math and determined there was not a hundred dollars worth of objects pup could destroy unless she managed to maul the questionable mattress to a timely death. I thought about going back to get her but decided against since she was sleeping quite happily.

I have been on many a trip where a layer of road grime was part of the allure, but I desperately wanted to shower and brush my teeth that night. There was a tiny problem with my plan. The shower was still wet, the curtain was half pulled, and there was a special something floating in the loo. (Did I use loo appropriately or does it mean the entire bathroom? I’ve wondered that.) I looked back at the bed suspiciously. The motel did rather have the feel of a ‘rent-by-the-hour’ place.

I just would have rather they cleaned the rooms between the hours. I switched rooms, and pup upgraded from the car to the motel room – pet fee waived.

Incorrect measurements

I went to pick up my bridesmaid dress last week for my best friend's wedding. This is the second dress the store has ordered me for this wedding. The first one was a teensy bit too small in some areas, so I was forced to choose a new style so the dress would be in the store in time for the wedding.

It takes six weeks to ship the dress. Apparently, even though they are a national chain, they have every single dress ordered shipped via camel from Sri Lanka. My dress made it in, safe and sound.

I insisted upon trying the dress on before I left the store. The sales assistant assured me it would fit since she had helped me choose the dress the second time. She humored me though. I pulled off the plastic covering and slipped the dress over my head. Up went the zipper....and stopped. Three inches separated the two edges of the dress in the bust area. Are you friggin' kidding me?

I stormed out of the dressing room. "It's too small."

"No, it is the right size."

"It's too small." I showed the assistant the expanse of exposed skin on my side. She tsked and called over the seamstress. The seamstress agreed it was too small. Out came the tape measures. Over came the manager and another sales assistant.

" I do not understand. You wore this size last time you came in. We were going to take in the waist." The assistant looked me up and down. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Perhaps, you got the implants?"

I denied plastic surgery. She asked if I was sure. I replied I thought I would remember falling asleep in the operating room and waking up with an improved chest:hip ratio. The seamstress looked up at me.

"Your chest is a size 12. Your waist is size 4. This will never fit. We get bigger size and take in waist." The manager tutted. They couldn't get another new dress in store in time for the wedding. Perhaps I could try the sample size twelve? I thought of C. and agreed. The assistants scurried off to find the twelve and all the other dresses they had in that color in the store. I dutifully tried on the sample dress. It seemed a bit big, so I clinched my arms tightly to my sides.

Bridal stores are set up rather interestingly. There are a zillion mirrors surrounding small raised circular platforms. This allows everyone to see all angles of the dress they are contemplating. It also gives everyone an excellent view of the other people trying on dresses.

I came out of the dressing room and stood on the little platform while the women circled me.

"Raise your arms," the diminutive seamstress said.

I did as I was told.

The dress promptly fell to my hips.

The prospective groom sitting at the next platform over with his prospective wife wolf whistled.

We're going with a smaller size.

Do you hear that ringing?

I am notorious for not answering my phone. It drives my friends crazy. It drives my family crazy. Sometimes it even drives me crazy. Over the years, different people have developed different strategies to get me to answer the phone or call back.

My grandmother calls twice and leaves messages about how I am a terrible granddaughter, probably lying dead in the street somewhere, but she wouldn't know because I never answer my phone. I'm not sure how I would let her know if I were dead in the street, but it is an effective tactic. I always call back.

DH just keeps calling over and over until I either give in and answer the phone or stuff the darn thing under a mattress. He does not leave voicemails. He knows I often forget to check them, then get completely overwhelmed at the sound of that snide automated voice saying "you have seventeen messages" and promptly delete them all without listening to any to avert an imminent panic attack.

Some have taken to calling DH and leaving messages for me. He makes an excellent secretary. I have one friend who only calls between the hours of 1 and 3 AM. I always answer his calls, although it is mainly because I am confused and think it is my alarm clock. Effective, yes. Nice, no.

I have lost my phone, frozen my phone, driven over my phone, and had my phone stolen by my pup. They refuse to sell me phone insurance. Good call on their part.

Take last week for evidence they made the right decision. It was an accident, I swear. I was cleaning the oven and talking to some idiot who wanted me to donate money to his grassroots healthcare reform program. I have no idea how these people found me. I tossed my phone on the table when I was done with him, finished cleaning, and put my cast iron skillet back in the oven. About twenty minutes later I heard a muffled ringing. I followed the ringing to the kitchen, but it stopped before I could find the phone. I looked in the refrigerator, the freezer, the cabinets - all the places I have misplaced my phone before. No success. I emailed DH to have him call the missing phone. I found it in the oven, warm and a teensy bit melted.

Oops.

The good news is it still works. The bad news is the speaker is rather gooey looking. So if you call, and if I answer, speak up people. I can't hear you.

Goodbyes again

It's one of those things where you wait days for something to happen, and then you are sorry that it did. That's about how I would sum up the past week.

DH's grandmother passed away, an event we had been expecting. We had lived the week or so before waiting on edge for the call to come. Come it did, at 6:30 in the morning. A deep sigh, tears, and then a flurry of activity. Packed and on the road, heading back to the farm.

Funerals are a strange thing. There is an odd combination of sadness and joy that make it hard to find your emotional footing. It's like a family reunion on which one person is missing out. The food is always the same (although I've learned there are regional differences). The sentiments are always the same. The preaching is always the same. I suppose we find comfort in that, in the rituals of death.

Personally, I hate them. I've been told I am so vehemently against going to funerals because I don't want to show my emotions. Poppycock. I have lovely emotions, and I am rarely unwilling to show them. Anger? No problem. Happiness? I'm there. Adoration? You bet. Grief? Well, maybe I like to keep that one a little more to myself.

My theory is that I have seen a lot of death. It comes with the business - a job hazard I suppose. Some deaths still hit me hard, like S.'s. Most don't though. I know it's a platitude that is spouted a lot at funerals, but I truly believe that the people who die are going on to a better place, a place where they are healthy and young and happy. Oh, and hot. I think everyone in heaven is hot. I couldn't find that in the Bible anywhere, but it makes sense.

You know the saying, "if you make something idiot-proof, someone will just build a better idiot"?

I have found that someone.

On hiatus again

Blog will not be posted this week due to a death in the family. My apologies.

S

Unwanted knights

I hear that chivalry is dead. I accidently developed an excellent experiment that seemed to prove otherwise. Men are quite gallant - more so than I wanted. The experimental protocol:

Step 1: If at all possible, be female. If you can't pull off step 1, the test may not work quite the same way.

Step 2: Once you are on the highway, notice that your car is pulling to the left just a tad and recall that you meant to stop and put air in it before you left. Sigh heavily at your terrible memory, and pull over to the side of the road. Do your absolute best to be wearing a dress and very high heels. It would most likely work with other clothing choices, but this will be a definite aid.

Step 3: Put on hazards. Get out of car. Note that the stupid tire is all the stupid way flat. Toss your hair angrily over your shoulder, annoyed that you don't have a ponytail holder so your hair is going to be in your face while you change the tire. Be thankful you figured this out before you ruined the tire. Open trunk. Bend over to pull out spare. At this point, the first car should be stopping.

Step 4: Thank the gentleman for stopping and explain that you just have a flat and don't need his assistance. Tell him again. Give up and let him take the tire out of the trunk. Show him how to loosen bolt so he can get tire out. Tell him again, firmly. Thank him for his phone number. Assure him you don't want him to be late. Send him on his way. Roll tire to front of car where flat is. Go back to trunk to pull out jack and tire iron.

Step 5: Try not to get hit by second car pulling over. Explain to nice man that you have things under control. Thank him for stopping. Assure him you can do this. Give up and let him crawl under car to put jack in place. Politely pull tire iron out of his hand. Send him on his way with profuse thanks. Crawl under car and move jack to proper place. Start loosening nuts.

Step 6: Wipe grease from hands off on napkin first guy gave you with number on it. Notice you have a smear of dirt on your leg from the jack and a smear of grease on your forehead from the tire. Laugh, start to wipe it off. Jump toward ditch to avoid getting hit by third truck stopping.

Step 7: Explain to three guys that you are almost done changing tire. Get picked up and set on tailgate of truck by the one who looks fourteen. Chastise him about manhandling and hop down. Ask if his mother would approve of that. Notice him looking sheepish. Check time. Let them finish changing the tire. Thank them profusely. Jump in car, roll down passenger window, blow a kiss, and tell them that their mothers would be very proud as you drive away.

I appreciate the chivalry, really I do. I think it's darling when men stop to help women. I would just rather they only stop if they actually know how to change the tire.

Expiration dates

Goodness, what a long day it has been.

Up early this morning, reviewed a few more journal articles for my research, wrote a paper, went to a three hour meeting, had my fingerprints sent to the FBI, finished my epidemiology lab, talked to a gentleman about my master's thesis, and made bread.

More work, less play ~ I was quickly becoming a rather dull girl. Luckily for me, K. was available for a quick bite after work. After work was around 8 p.m., but I haven't been to bed before two for ages, so no worries. DH was off to kickball, and I was off to The Dirty Swine. (FYI: Murphy's Stout, thumbs up.)

I hadn't seen K. in ages. This was mainly secondary to the forbiddance of our friendship by a mutual friend. I hate it when people forbid me to do things. As I hadn't talked to him in longer than I hadn't seen her, I decided to risk the mafia hit and hang out with her. She's a doll. All you single gentlemen out there - she's cute, blonde, athletic, funny, and a PhD candidate -which means you are undoubtedly not good enough. It was fabulous, the perfect anecdote to an exhausting day.

It did make me wonder. If you make a ridiculous promise to a friend so he will be less uncomfortable and later become far less friendy due to a nuclear holocaust or a new girlfriend, are you required by the laws of friendship to keep the promise if it goes against logic? Is there a time frame on how long you have to keep him less uncomfortable, particularly if he has since dated multiple other girls and is in a committable relationship?

"Never forget"

I had a darling post all ready about lumberjack days ready to go, but I just read this terrible article in GQ.

You all know that I don't watch horror films because I have nightmares for ages afterward. I had the same trouble seeing the concentration camp in Czech and the Nazi memorabilia (I don't know if this is the appropriate word) in Germany. I had just awful dreams. I do not think I will be sleeping well tonight either.

The article discussed the atrocities committed by the Angkar regime under Pol Pot in Cambodia in the 70's. I had heard some rumblings about trials on CNN, but no one seemed to be getting all that worked up about it. We should be getting worked up about it. We are quick to attack any suspected Nazi guard, and it made front page news when Demjanjuk was deported for trial. The attacks in Darfur were all over the news.

Yet I had heard almost nothing about the 1.7 million people slaughtered in Cambodia. They killed doctors, engineers, and educated people preferentially at first. It seems they believed an uneducated population was a more easily controlled population. They beat babies and children against trees. They did things that caused me to become physically ill reading about.

I have no doubt that this is partially my fault. I probably heard a blip and let the story slip through my mind as I am wont. I don't really know what I want to say about this. I just think more people should know. We should be upset. Crimes like this are crimes against our humanity. The victims deserve recognition. They deserve to be remembered.

Why did the man cross the road?

The night started out a little later than I had planned since I left my license at a friend’s apartment. I know the law says they must card everyone, but seriously. I’m quite sure I no longer look under twenty-one, and I had no plans of drinking since I had an early date with a lumberjack the next day. On the plus side, being greeted with resounding cheers when you arrive at the pub does make you feel appreciated.

I was sipping my whiskey and Coke, minus the whiskey, and half listening to my new pseudo-British composer friend. The man is essentially getting a PhD in creativity. I'm not sure how one teaches (or studies) creativity, but I'm also not a liberal arts grad.

I was gazing out the window, pondering the terrible fashion choices of the girls waiting to get in, when I noticed a double decker party bus pull up across the street. Men started pouring out. My interest was peaked. A rather large man in a striped polo started weaving his way across the street - the very traffic intense four lane street. I had faith in him though, because he was holding up his hand to halt the traffic. Who wouldn't stop for that?

Apparently, a Prius will not. It must have been in hybrid mode and snuck up on him, 'cause it knocked the poor guy flat. He bounced back up like one of those clown punching dolls and slammed his hands on the hood of the Prius. It appeared that words were exchanged, then he continued his treacherous journey across the street. He made it just in time to meet up with his not-much-less intoxicated friends who had used the crosswalk.

The whole crew came pouring into the pub. It was a bachelor party. I love bachelor parties. I know some women go off on the whole "demoralizing, sexist, ridiculous, acting like teenagers, if you love me you won't" rant, but I think they are hilarious.

Where else will you find a grown man dancing with a half-inflated blow-up doll that he has managed to get glued onto his jeans? If you know the answer to that question, please, do not share.

Water conservation

I’m watching the farm this week while the in-laws are on vacation. Really, I’m escaping from the city. There’s only so much pollution I can inhale at a time before I start to yearn for cleaner air and open spaces.

Yesterday I learned how to turn the pivot (or giant water sprinkler for those non-farmers out there) on and off. It’s a messy muddy job, but I liked it. It made me feel like I was accomplishing something, even if I was just starting a motor and moving some pipe around.

This morning, it started raining….hard. We had thunder, lightening, the whole shebang. BIL called to tell me to turn the pivot off. He said I could wait until the rain let up, but I was determined to get it done right away. I had just finished a session on water usage in the U.S. and developing worlds and didn’t want to waste any water we could keep in the ground.

Ran outside in my blue scrub bottoms, purple tank top, and green irrigation boots. Ready for a fashion show, I was not. I quickly realized that this was not the most protective attire for rain when everything was drenched in about twenty seconds. Decided to take the four-wheeler for two reasons. One, I was soaked and didn't think it was a good idea to get the truck wet. Two, I was pretty sure I would get the truck stuck and did not look forward to explaining to my FIL why the tires were buried in two feet of mud.

I was speeding down the gravel road toward the path I thought I remembered going through the beans and corn to one of the pivot parts when I realized I couldn't see. The rain was stinging my face and arms, the mud was splattering my eyes and hair, and thunder was cracking overhead. I wiped my face with my cleanest dirty arm and took a left.

Turned off the engine for the pivot and headed to the water pump. Corn is sharp. Dripping wet knife sharp corn attacking my arms like tiny razorblades was a job hazard I had never considered. I made it to the pump, hopped off the four wheeler, and lost my irrigation boot in the calf deep mud puddle. It was still pouring rain, my other boot was half full of water, my hair was dripping mud and rain, and the pump was shooting icy water at my knees. I hopped on one foot and tried to convince the boot it really wanted to be on my foot.

I pulled....and pulled....and pulled. Nothing. I gave one last huge yank, and the boot came loose with a disgusting schlepping sound. I would have celebrated, but I was busy summersaulting backwards into the other deeper mud puddle. I landed flat on my back, boot in hand. The mud wasted no time in letting me know that it wanted me to stay by oozing over my stomach and legs.

I struggled out of the mire still holding my boot, stood in front of the icy spray to rinse off a bit, flipped the pump switch, and clambered back onto the four wheeler. I made it back to the house and came in through the basement so I would track mud on the least amount of floor necessary. Pup came bounding down the stairs (she escaped her kennel, the brat), took one look at me, and backed up the stairs barking and growling. I caught a glimpse of myself as I was getting in the shower. (Clothed. I had to get some of the mud off somehow.)

I was a total combo.

Corn

Corn freaks me out.

Not when you can buy it in canned, frozen, or cobbed form mind you. Not when it's tiny corn plants about knee high. Not at harvest time when the stalks are all golden and crisp. No, it freaks me out when it is growing in the field and is taller than me. I totally get why Stephen King wrote the children of the corn story.

Rows and rows of green stalks towering over my head and I can't see through more than three rows or so. I can hear the rustling and whispering of the wind in the leaves (or of the multiple serial killers out to get me that I am convinced are hiding four rows over just out of sight). If it's a very still day, I can hear the creaking and groaning of the corn growing. You shouldn't be able to hear a plant grow. That's creepy. Sometimes at night, I feel like the corn is watching me or something in the corn is watching me.

I know it's silly.....but I'm still sleeping with the doors barricaded.

Vroom vroom

I like things to be clean - very clean. I used to clean my car once a week. Vacuum twice a day. Wipe down the bathroom once a day. Dishes done after every meal. I still lost things as I tend to be rather absent minded, but they were lost in a clean environment. I have had to let this go since I started living with DH. It has been a struggle.

He is not messy per se. He is just very male. (I beg forgiveness from all the neat and tidy males out there. The two of you have my deepest apologies.) I bring this up not to chastise him. He is darling in many, many ways. It is instead because of the experience I just had cleaning the car.

Leather was conditioned. Metal was polished. Q-tips had been used to clean the vents and knobs. All that was left to do was vacuum. Normally, I prefer to vacuum before the detail cleaning, but I was willing to wait as DH was cleaning the Jeep and wanted to vacuum it too. I never stand in the way of a man cleaning. So I waited.

Pup was hiding in the floorboard of the car. She hates the vacuum. She once fit herself on a three inch windowsill between the curtain and the glass trying to hide from the satanic machine that was sucking up all of her morning stick chewing paraphernalia. The devil machine being outside instead of in the house was really messing with her. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to avoid brushing her by sucking up all her loose fur that one time. I think it scarred her.

DH finished and went off to get his fishing rods ready or some such nonsense leaving me with the vacuum. There was a funny grinding noise when I turned it on, and it smelled slightly like it was on fire. I didn't see any smoke, so I kept vacuuming. The noise got louder. The smell got stronger. Pup ran away.

I flipped the little red switch and tumped the vacuum upside down to see what all the ruckus was about. Belts looked good. No sticks stuck. The side gear looked a little funny.....so I poked at it with my finger.

I have no fingerprint on that finger anymore. Burned it clear off -nothing but shiny scar now. When I rob a jewelry store, that's the finger I'm going to use on the gun trigger. The vacuum had been spinning so fast that it melted the side gear. Melted it. The whole stinking tube part had welded itself onto the side and bottom. The brush bristles had glommed into the gear and tube.

I can't blame this on DH. I really wish I could though. If only I were okay with living in a mess....I would still have my fingerprint.

***I have never tried to vacuum my dog. I do not advocate vacuuming dogs. Dogs should be loved and cuddled and stuff. Did you hear that PETA? ***

Weaknesses

I have many weaknesses. Fabulous shoes. Handsome men. Puppies. Couture. Some I indulge, some I avoid for the sake of my health and my bank account.

I have a distinct weakness for watermelon. Every summer, I buy the smallest largest seeded watermelon that I can find. Pop it in the fridge; let it get ice cold. Then comes my downfall. It happened again today.

I eat a slice and then one more. DH doesn't care for watermelon, and I can't let it to go to waste. So I have another slice....and another.

DH came home and found me passed out on the lawn in a patch of sunshine, watermelon rinds scattered around me. I'm sticky. I'm hot. My face is stained red. I'm clutching my very full, very swollen stomach. It hurts to move.

"I thought you said last year you weren't going to eat the whole watermelon in one sitting again," he says as he steps over the mess that is me.

I close my eyes.

It was totally worth it.

High Treason

I always secretly wanted to be a Grinch or a Scrooge, but I love holidays. All holidays - I don't discriminate. I'm Irish on St. Patty's Day and Mexican on Cinco De Mayo. I love having people at my house celebrating. I think I get this from my grandmother - this and my flair for the dramatic.

Growing up, we spent the Fourth eating BBQ, watermelon, and homemade ice cream. Come dark, we'd head up the hill and camp out on the grass to watch the fireworks. We were serious about lighting fireworks. No wimpy matches or cigarette lighters for us. Blowtorches, ladies and gents. That really gets the job done.

This year I was stuck in the North, so I only heard about the Butterfinger ice cream and the Roman candles at home. To ease my homesickness, we had people over for grilling and ice cream. The burgers rocked. Cajun spices, sharp cheddar cheese, barbeque sauce, bacon, tomatoes fresh from the garden, Romaine, fried onions, kaiser buns - heck yeah. I don't eat brats, but I heard they were good too. Processed meat freaks me out. Pound cake, ice cream, berries, whipped cream. We celebrate treason in style.

Prior to the fireworks, M. and E. announced their engagement. While I'm not sure Independence Day is the most apt day for that, it was still very nice. They've been together eight years - several years longer than DH and I have known each other. Some people wade into things. I'd rather leap.

Showdown

I was driving to the park a couple of days ago and noticed a flash of baby powder blue out of the corner of my eye. It was a rather Rubenesque woman on a Vespa scooter cruising along in the wrong direction in the bike lane. Her matching helmet was strapped snugly beneath her chins. Her pink t-shirt read "fat people are harder to kidnap". In her right hand was a 44 oz Coke. Her left hand was clutching the handlebar and a leash. Her Golden Retriever was trotting along on the sidewalk next to her.

I sighed to myself over the sad state of the American obesity problem and waited for the light to turn green. Gazing ahead, I noticed a man coming the correct direction in the bike lane. He was driving a motorized wheelchair. Not a boring black one - a blue one, swathed in Veteran bumper stickers, a little American flag waving from one handle bar, and an orange wind tunnel flag flapping from the other. He had on one of those floppy round fishing hats and huge black sun glasses.

I shot off a quick prayer for the light to stay red and rolled down my window. It was the weirdest game of chicken I have ever seen. Five miles an hour tops, and neither one of them would give.

They both rolled to a stop inches from each other. The screaming began, obscenities were hurled, and the Vespa lady started getting pretty red and out of breath. She was waving her arms, yelling that he needed to move his blankety blank wheelchair out of her way because she wasn't driving in traffic. He yelled back that his wheelchair couldn't jump the curb, and he couldn't very well get out and push it over the bump so she should move her ....large bottom. The dog started barking, circled the wheelchair guy a couple of times, and got his leash hopelessly tangled in the wheel spokes. Her helmet started sliding forward into her eyes.

The light turned green. No cars moved. Everyone was watching the battle of the bike lane. Someone from the back started honking (they obviously couldn't see the drama), and we all drove away.

We came back from the park and there was a spilled Coke and what looked like a piece of orange flag on the side of the road.

Free at last

Most of my loyal (and disloyal but still interested) readers know that I have had a long standing disagreement with a branch of the U.S. military. They thought I looked nice in camouflage and combat boots. I thought I was more of a stiletto and wrap dress kind of girl. I like to wear my hair down and curly. They liked my hair tidy and tucked up in a bun. The list continues.

Monday at 3 p.m. central standard time we had a mutual break-up. It was a little more mutual on my part than theirs, but most break-ups are. We are headed down separate roads ne'er to cross paths again if fate is done messing with me. No more combat boots. No more spit polish (though to be honest, there wasn't much of that to begin with. The secret to shiny boots is regular shoe polish, a cigarette lighter, and a buffing cloth. Spit not required, thank God.) No more camo unless it's ironic or Halloween.

It was such a cordial breakup they're even giving me an honorable discharge as a parting gift. Isn't that thoughtful?

Apple of my eye, pain in my tush

While the title of this post could easily be referring to my pup as she is a constant delight and headache, it is not.

My laptop finally fired up its last microchip, choked on a gigabyte, and went to meet the great microprocessor in the sky. (I obviously don't know squat about computers so forgive the terminology.) DH is a Mac guy and wanted our next computer to be white with partially eaten fruit on the cover. Thus, I learned today that Apple is like a cult, only the people are hipper and slightly more fanatical. I don't really care one way or the other which is not a safe thing to say in an Apple store. I thought they would strap me down and force feed me the Kool-Aid on the spot. Because I don't care and DH does, I am now the indifferent owner of a MacBook Pro.

I have no idea what the Pro stands for, but it costs extra. I do like the backlit keys. It really saves my eyes while I'm typing these posts in the dark trying not to keep DH awake. On the other hand, I have no idea how to use the stinking thing. I refused to pay the $99 to be taught how to use the computer, so I just spent ten minutes figuring out how to copy text. I'm not sure how to right click as the mouse has no buttons. Things keep bouncing at me for no apparently good reason, and the "i" in front of all the applications is getting annoying. I get it. You're cool.

Maybe I will become a convert eventually. For now, this thing should be glad that it's pretty. My love of pretty things is all that is saving it from annihilation.

Toothpaste

One of my best friends has done me the honor of asking me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. It's a big deal, as weddings tend to be. True love and all that. With the honor comes the dress - the bridesmaid dress. Cue the horror film music.

All girls have stories of the bridesmaid dress. Ruffled. Beribboned. Themed. Ruffled again. Bows tacked in strategically unattractive places. So bad fourth rate drag queens wouldn't wear them around the house on the off chance they might trip on the hem, choke on a ruffle, die, and be found in it.

These dresses aren't terrible. Each bridemaid has a different style of dress all in the same color: serene. They are quite fitting actually. The slutty girl is wearing the slutty dress, the sweet one is wearing the sweet and innocent dress, and so on. My dress thankfully has no frills, no ruffles, no bows. I'm not into strategic draping or cleavage enhancing mermaid shapes or rhinestones. Interpret that how you will.

I went to pick up the dress today. The store's policy is if you take the dress out the door, you can't bring it back. I think it's to ward off hysterical women who gained ten pounds from stress eating because their friend is getting married and they are sure this means they will die alone with four cats. I tried the dress on per my orders from the bride. The sample size had fit beautifully - no tailoring required. The actual dress did not.

The waist fit wonderfully. The cleavage area was a little snug. Pretty snug. Very snug. If I were a tube of toothpaste, someone had just stepped on me so I squeezed out the top. I was a beer with too much head. I was a summer sausage popping out of the casing. It was not pretty. I stepped out of the dressing room with my hands crossed to cover the parts that should have been under fabric. The alterations lady looked me up and down like a prize hog.

"You are too big."

"Excuse me? I think the dress is too small. I am the perfect size, thank you very much."

"No, too big." She whipped out a tape measure. " See your waist is a two. Your bust is an eight. You are too big. I cannot help you." She stalked off.

I was annoyed. My inappropriately garbed self cornered a salesgirl. We discussed. Turns out my dress can't be ordered in a larger size in time for the wedding IN SEPTEMBER. If I had gone for the slutty version or the princess version, not a problem. But since I picked the simple, no frills, no ruffles, no tiara required version it had to be special ordered. Who knew it was so popular to be a candy color swathed lady-of-the-night?

I also learned there is a two inch difference allowance in sizes for mass produced clothing. Two inches. If I were sewing up someone's face, and I was off by two inches, they would be pissed. Roofer off by two inches - you complain about the water dripping onto your bed. Tiger Woods off by two inches - he's playing like he is now. I can think of a lot of examples where two inches makes one helluva difference.

There are times when you have to take one for the team...or for the bride. I'm ordering one of the other dresses that they can get faster. Ruffles. Bows. Rhinestones.

Sigh.

Wasted days, sleepless nights

It was a day hot enough to make the devil sigh... or so the people up North believed. Sprinklers made slow passes over parched yards. Lawn mowers remained tucked away in garages, giving the neighborhood a much welcomed respite from their growls. Insects couldn't be bothered to flit from one wilting plant to another. Dogs took refuge under yawning oaks cooling their bellies on the moistened grass. As for me, I lazed in the hammock sipping sweet iced tea and wasting away the afternoon.

My companions were guilty pleasures, bittersweet daydreams of past and current loves, dark chocolates, a treatise on ethics, and a darling pup who loves me desperately in spite of my (many) flaws. We whiled away the day together...watched the clouds drift past and attempted to make sense of the past year. We were unsuccessful as most are who try to derive a logical conclusion from this wholly illogical life, but we were at last content.

Contentment is a rather rare and fleeting feeling these days. Too many irons in the fire, too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions. In the spirit of that old cliche, I was afraid to hold on too tightly lest it slip away and desperate to cling to it for the same reason. It did fade as the sun set; the day ebbing into night. My demons returned accompanied by the familiar foes of sleeplessness and uncertainty. I know it will be a long night. I would cease to fight if I did not believe that pain is what allows us to fully experience joy. So I continue.

Here's to the rest of you on this long night. May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for, may misfortune follow you all your life, but never catch up, and may you be a half hour in heaven before the devil knows you're there.

Happy Hours

We went to a will-not-be-named chain restaurant this past week because I refuse to turn on the air conditioning. I just don't think eighty is hot enough. The people up here can live with thirty degrees below zero, but if the mercury rises a few marks above seventy they think they will suffocate. I miss the South.

Anyway, this place makes the best Southwest eggrolls besides mine. It was still early evening, so we thought we might make happy hour. We shouldn't have been concerned, as this chain advertises that they have "Happy Hour All Day Every Day! 2 for 1 Drinks!"

DH is a marketing guy at heart, so he took exception to the fraud they were perpetrating upon hapless consumers. Our waitress bounced up.

"If happy hour is all day every day, isn't that just the regular price?"

She looked puzzled. "No, it's happy hour."

"But if the price is, say, five dollars for one ten ounce drink, and you have two for one drinks every day all day, isn't that just the regular price? Five dollars for twenty ounces?"

Her smile didn't dim. "No. It's happy hour. The second drink is free."

DH looked at me beseechingly. I was not going to help. He got himself into the argument with the bubble head, he could get himself out.

"Okay, but it's not a sale. See the food prices are the same every day all day, but they aren't a happy hour special. It's just the regular price. Because it's every day."

Waitress looked at me beseechingly, then tried again. "The drinks are the happy hour. Two for one." She smiled tightly. "Do you need a minute?"

I spoke. "Coke and eggrolls please. He's being difficult. You're being dense. This happy hour stinks. And I'm too hungry to listen to you two."

DH ordered. "Was I being difficult?"

"No, love. She was just definitely not over qualified for her job."

It's like I tell the grandkids (future me) - don't argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell who is who.

TB tests

I tried to register for classes last week, but the University had thoughtfully put a hold on my student account because my TB skin test had expired. I was aware of this fact because I had ignored the six emails reminding me. I figured they had nothing on me because I was graduating. Stupid new degree ruined my well laid plans. I was supposed to go see my doctor for the test. This posed a minor problem. I don't have a "regular doctor", partly because I don't like going to the doctor, and partly because I refuse to acknowledge I live in Minnesota and having a steady doctor seems like an admission of guilt.

The only place that could squeeze me in was the community health clinic. The address wasn't in the part of town with the least amount of bars on the windows, but I figured my odds of getting shot at were low since it was early morning. Plus I am very intimidating. The lobby was pretty crowded. Two large women were arguing loudly about who had arrived first and thus who would get the earlier appointment. A man was rocking back and forth on the floor talking to himself. It got pretty quiet when I walked in the room; I assume it was my dashing good looks and had little to do with being the only Caucasian appearing female in the whole clinic. They looked me up and down, then went back to yelling. The check-in lady was Somalian, and she did not speak English well. I am American, and do not speak Somalian well. This posed a problem.

"I want a TB skin test."

"Form." She handed me a post-it note with name, address, and phone written on it. I dug a pen out of my purse, filled out the post-it, and tried again.

"I want a TB skin test."

"Meed need sure."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Meed need sure." Then she said something in Somalian.

"Ummmm...."

"NAME," she yelled. Apparently she was saying middle initial and was frustrated that I couldn't understand her accent. I haven't been yelled at for speaking English since I was in Prague.

Somebody, slap me

Today I washed my hair with sulfate free shampoo and conditioner before I took my pampered puppy to the neighborhood dog park. We came home to our apartment in a restored early twentieth century home. I mopped the floors with environmentally friendly lemon oil soap, took out the recycling, and then composted the odds and ends from the veggies I was using to make dinner. Used my ridiculously expensive mixer and garlic press.

I cut fresh flowers from our front yard and weeded the garden some. I walked pup to the local grocery co-op to pick up marzipan - organic because it was all they had. Sampled local fruit and cheeses, then walked back home. Ironed a table runner and table cloth for dinner tonight.

Converted recipe measurements from metric to American because the recipe came from a friend in Germany. (Thanks, Shara!) Made homemade cake, ice cream, and coulis.

I was such a citified yuppie jerk today that I kind of wanted to punch myself. I wouldn't even have taken offense if someone else had done it for me. I totally had it coming.

Today

Today, I miss my cousin.

I'm on fire

I made pasta last night for dinner. Nothing fancy, just a little olive oil, basil, Parmesan, and black pepper. We were out of peppercorn, so I used the black pepper from the spice cabinet. It has two lids. One sprinkles. One pours.

Unbeknownst to me, I poured. One third of a cup of black pepper on my pasta. I tried to spoon some of it back into the bottle before it soaked up the olive oil but just ended up spilling it all over the counter and floor. Artemis tried to help by licking it off the floor, started sneezing violently, gave herself the hiccups from sneezing, then threw up. It was an omen that I ignored.

I hate wasting things. I still have a pair of jeans from high school that I can't bear to throw away even though the knees are ripped, the thighs are torn, and most of the buttocks region is worn so thin you can almost see through it. I can still wear them to work in the shop or to garden or to farm, so I keep them. I blame this trait for my subsequent actions.

I like spicy food, so I figured a little pepper wouldn't hurt me. No need to waste the pasta - fresh basil is still expensive this far north this time of year. I just added more Parmesan to balance out the pepperiness of the pasta. First bite, okay. Second bite, my nose started running. I didn't stop. DH came in to find me lying on the floor, coughing, tears streaming down my face, desperately fanning my mouth. The bowl was on the carpet next to me - empty.

He didn't even ask what happened. I can't decide if this is credit to his tolerance or to my ridiculousness. He just stepped over me, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a drink.

Incident over as far as I was concerned. I was wrong. I learned something at 5 am this morning. Apparently, when you eat a crap load of pepper in one sitting, in about 6-8 hours all of your mucous membranes, palms, and soles are attacked by small fire demons. My intestines were being charcoaled. It hurt to touch my feet against the blankets. You could have roasted marshmallows in my mouth. I seriously thought to myself "so this is how people spontaneously combust." I spent the day sucking on ice cubes and trying not to touch things.

I've cooled to a nice rolling boil now. Here's hoping that cold front moves in tonight.

Southern manners

Being born and raised a Southern girl comes with side effects.

I have a drawl that pops out when I am very happy, very mad, or surrounded by family (which usually brings on the first two conditions). I can drink sweet ice tea no matter what the weather is like outside. When I say "bless your heart" it can mean a hundred different things depending on the inflection. I am obsessive about writing thank you notes.

Last week I sat down with a cold glass of tea and wrote out my thank you notes for my recent graduation. I addressed them all, stamped them up, and piled them on the side table in the living room.

My thank you notes are usually awesome, by the way. You would totally know this if you had sent me a present or card. Linen paper, written with the quill and blue ink my little sis picked up for me in London, sealed with red sealing wax stamped with my initial. Oh yeah.

Except I ran out of linen paper for this batch and had to use off the shelf cardstock. Then I spilled tea all over them.

A blow-dryer on low heat totally evaporated the left over moisture, but they still looked rather unintentionally antique. I reasoned with myself that since it was only the envelopes, no one would notice. Scooped them up and cut myself on the edge. Shoot. Someone might notice the blood stains. Blotted off the blood as best I could, did a hazardous materials prayer (I'm pretty sure that's New Testament) over them, and sent them on their merry way.

My grandpa called me this evening to thank me for the note. He was so touched by it, he wanted to read it back to me. Red flags shot up everywhere. My grandpa is the best man I have ever known, but I wouldn't say he was sentimental.

"The back is tea-stained." Check. That I knew.

"You open the envelope, and the front of the card says 'Thank You'. You open the card and it reads ' Dear Grandma and Grandpa.'" He paused. "I suppose you wrote the rest in invisible ink or white out, because I can't seem to find the rest of the note."

I can hear my grandma in the background. "We already called your uncles and had them come down and look at it. Tell her that we talked it over and can't figure out how she can be so smart and a doctor and not finish a thank you note."

Frick. So much for Southern manners.

Here piggie piggie....

I came across the most ridiculous news story I have heard in a year while flipping through the Wii news headlines. CNN and BBC had failed to pick this one up. Thank goodness for Nintendo.

"NY Man Arrested Buying Drugs with Pig"

How can you not read the article after a headline like that? I had to know more. Was the pig a pet and along for the drug deal? Was he paying for the drugs with the pig? What kind of drugs can you get with or for a pig? What kind of drug addict walks up to his dealer and says "I'm short on cash, but I have this pig....."? What kind of drug dealer accepts a pig as payment? Is this a sign that the economic crisis is worse than we thought? I mean, if drug dealers are bartering for food should we be worried?

The article went on to explain that man offered the pig and $10 as payment for a $50 bag of crack. The dealer accepted because he was going to eat the pig at a celebration for a relative getting out of jail. (I will pause whilst you insert your own jokes here.)

"While officers were arresting the suspects, someone took the pig. Police do not know if the men have lawyers."

How did the police not notice someone wandering up and stealing evidence? Particularly large, slaughtered, bacon-smelling evidence? Pigs are heavy even after they're slaughtered and are a rather awkward bloody shape. The guy couldn't have run fast with it, and I'm sure witnesses in New York would remember a man running down the street with a pig thrown over his shoulder.

Also, isn't it interesting that someone stole the pig and left the crack?

I would like to know since when the fair market value of a whole pig is $40? Granted, this was more of a black market pig, but I feel someone should update my butcher on current street value of pork. I googled whole pig prices; a small hog is about $180. The drug addict was getting ripped off. (Shocking, I know.)

I can solve the last mystery for the cops. I'm pretty confident they do not have lawyers. Luckily, the dealer has a family member getting out of jail who can recommend a bad one.

Peeping Tommy

I was in The Mall today with my brother-in-law acting as a personal shopper. I love shopping for other people. It's like playing dress up with live dolls. Maybe I should toss away this whole doctor thing and be a professional shopper.

I had to utilize the facilities thanks to an extra large water I drank at lunch. I left BIL at the Holiday gas station store in the mall and took myself off to the loo. I was minding my own business when a head popped under the stall door and a small hand waved at me.

"Hello," piped a tiny voice.

This demands a question. How old is too old to bring your child of the opposite gender into the restroom with you? I'm going to take a stand and say that eight or nine is too old. If the kid knows about the difference in body parts and can wipe his or her own tushy, he or she can pee alone. Time the kid if need be, guard both exits with flaming swords, give explicit instructions about strangers, but for goodness' sake don't let them run around the opposite gender restroom sticking their head under stalls while you are taking care of your own business. It is uncalled for and disconcerting for the other patrons.

It is so disconcerting that they might grab sunscreen out of their purse and spray it at the head poking under the door. The kid might scream and cry. The patron might refuse to apologize since he or she felt the head should have stayed on its own side of the door and that sunscreen was a defensive move. The parent might become upset and yell. The situation could deteriorate and end with an argument that on one side was loud with an excellent lexicon and on the other had poor logic and a pitiful excuse for a vocabulary. This could result in disdain for the inept arguer who would storm out of the restroom child in tow muttering about rude Southerners.

It could happen.

18 times!

I started golfing just a few years ago. I haven't made it out very often since then because of my schedule and the ridiculous amount of winter they have in this state. Seriously, who needs seven months of snow? It freaking snowed yesterday up North. There is a frost warning tonight. It's June. Why do people live here?

I digress.

Every spring I pull out my clubs, my cute golf outfits, and matching golf shoes and tackle the executive par 3 course just north of us. (I feel like such a tool when I say that.) Every year I am disappointed in myself. It's a par 3 for goodness sake. I secretly think that my golf balls have been aqua-magnetized. They always go in the water. Always. Puddle, lake, pond, soggy fairway, moat around the sand castles - my ball will find it. You could dig wells based on where my ball lands.

This year was different. I have scored more named holes this year than I ever have. Double bogey - check. Bogey - check. Par - almost (see bogey). I haven't broken the water curse yet, but I have hope. I also have a secret plan to avoid all holes with water. Beverage cart, anyone?

P.S. Robin Williams does a sketch I think perfectly captures the spirit of golf.

Wanna trade?

I am often jealous of other people's lives. It is not because I dislike my own (it's pretty fabulous most days) but because of how different they are from my own.

My stylist friend, for example, is a beautiful girl who in the past year has dated a UFC fighter, a tattoo artist, a lawyer, and a drummer for a famous punk band. She went to jail the day before she met the President of the United States, was the stylist for a major concert tour, and lives pay-check to pay-check most of the time. Another friend has three beautiful children, married her college sweetheart, and works full-time as a nurse.

I know a guy in a professional improv group, a woman who designs sets for haute couture runway shows, and a woman who is in a different state or country every month consulting with businesses. I just met a guy taking a secret post in Washington D.C. for the next three years and a woman who is a specialist in alternative autism treatments.

I enjoy my life. I have a lot of fun and wouldn't change the decisions I've made that have brought me here. Sometimes though, I think it would be fun to be someone else for a week or so- to live a life completely different from mine with different responsibilities. Be a mom, a rock-star, a secret agent, or a comedian. Having a new set of problems and responsibilities would be a blast - at least for awhile.

Girls will be boys

When you're eight or nine, nothing makes you feel cooler than thinking you're getting away with something. Add to that an older cousin with little regard for age appropriate behavior, and one has a fabulous Saturday afternoon.

Pup and I stopped by my uncle's house to pick up the boys and go fishing. The five of us headed off over the hill to the catfish pond, poles slung over our shoulders. Had a brief run-in with the barbed wire fence that ended in ripping my last pair of non-holey jeans open. The boys and pup were running up ahead. I was being the responsible adult shouting things like "watch for snakes" and "no hitting each other in the head with your fishing poles".

It was about this point we ran into mud. Serious mud. Arkansas clay and a week of non-stop rain mud. The boys turned to warn me. It was hitting them mid-thigh, and they were thrilled when I waded in after them without hesitation. We slogged our way through losing shoes and fishing lures along the way. We made it to the pond, and I set up their rigs.

It has been a long time since I have been fishing with small children. For those of you considering it, I recommend eye protection. They got their lures stuck in the cattails, in the trees, in the dogs, in me, and in each other. Luckily for all involved, I had thought to crimp the barbs on the lures. I escaped with just a few scratches and one new scar. It's all right though. I hear chicks dig scars.

E. asked me if they could go swimming. I mulled it over. Not only was it forbidden by their parents and my grandparents, but a thunderstorm was brewing overhead. In my very best responsible adult voice, I gave them permission. I instructed them to strip off their white T-shirts first. I figured the boys would at least come out cleaner than when they went into the creek.

They jumped in and soon were begging me to follow suit. I rolled up my pants legs, knotted my T-shirt up, and in I went. We splashed; we swam; we had a mud wrestling match or five that devolved into a mud fight. We took turns painting each others' faces, backs, and stomachs with mud then ran through the woods pretending to be Indians. We caught bugs and one unhappy frog. We were filthy.

We grabbed our poles and snuck back through the rain across the pasture to the house, slipped though the barbed wire fence, and made it to the garden hose without getting caught. I sprayed the big chunks off the boys and out of their hair; I let them take turns spraying me down. Three times is two times too many to get blasted by icy water, but they all wanted a turn. I wrung out their shorts and shirts and sent them back home.

As we were finishing up our covert clean-up, the boys turned to me. The little guy who had come over to play with D. looked me up and down. "Girls aren't supposed to like getting dirty. Are you a boy?"

"She's not a boy or a girl. She's our cousin, dummy."

I heard their parents washed their clothes three times and still couldn't get the mud out. They sent the other little guy home with brown socks and underwear. My grandma pulled rocks out of her washing machine and dryer for two days from my clothes. I spent fifteen minutes getting the sticks, mud, and rocks out of my hair. It was totally worth it to get to be a kid again for an afternoon.